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than he had bargained for. So they were hoping to smuggle out FitzAlan’s treasury, as well as his person, and this very night, westward into Wales! And had had the forethought to stow it away meantime, against this desperate contingency, outside the walls of the town, somewhere in the suburb of Frankwell. No gates to pass, no bridges to cross. As for Godith—he had a shrewd idea now where to look for her. With the girl and the money, he reflected, a man could buy the favour of far less corruptible men than King Stephen!
    Godith was in the herbarium workshop, obstinately stirring, diluting and mixing as she had been shown, an hour before Vespers, with her heart in anguished suspense, and her mind in a twilight between hope and despair. Her face was grubby from smearing away tears with a hand still soiled from the garden, and her eyes were rimmed with the washed hollows and grimed uplands of her grief and tension. Two tears escaped from her angry efforts at damming them, while both hands were occupied, and fell into a brew which should not have been weakened. Godith swore, an oath she had learned in the mews, long ago, when the falconers were suffering from a careless and impudent apprentice who had been her close friend.
    “Rather say a blessing with them,” said Brother Cadfael’s voice behind her shoulder, gently and easily. “That’s likely to be the finest tisane for the eyes I ever brewed. Never doubt God was watching.” She had turned her dirty, dogged, appealing face to him in silence, finding encouragement in the very tone of his voice. “I’ve been to the gate house, and the mill, and the bridge. Such ill news as there is, is ill indeed, and presently we’ll go pray for the souls of those quitting this world. But all of us quit it at last, by whatever way, that’s not the worst of evils. And there is some news not all evil. From all I can hear this side Severn, and at the bridge itself—there’s an archer among the guard there was with me in the Holy Land—your father and FitzAlan are neither dead, wounded nor captive, and all search of the town has failed to find them. They’re clear away, Godric, my lad. I doubt if Stephen for all his hunting will lay hand on them now. And now you may tend to that wine you’re watering, and practise your young manhood until we can get you safely out of here after your sire.”
    Just for a moment she rained tears like the spring thaw, and then she glinted radiance like the spring sun. There was so much to grieve over, and so much to celebrate, she did not know which to do first, and essayed both together, like April. But her age was April, and the hopeful sunshine won.
    “Brother Cadfael,” she said when she was calm, “I wish my father could have known you. And yet you are not of his persuasion, are you?”
    “Child, dear,” said Cadfael comfortably, “my monarch is neither Stephen nor Maud, and in all my life and all my fighting I’ve fought for only one king. But I value devotion and fidelity, and doubt if it matters whether the object falls short. What you do and what you are is what matters. Your loyalty is as sacred as mine. Now wash your face and bathe your eyes, and you can sleep for half an hour before Vespers—but no, you’re too young to have the gift!”
    She had not the gift that comes with age, but she had the exhaustion that comes of youthful stress, and she fell asleep on her bench-bed within seconds, drugged with the syrup of relief. He awoke her in time to cross the close for Vespers. She walked beside him discreetly, her shock of clipped curls combed forward on her brow to hide her still reddened eyes.
    Driven to piety by shock and terror, all the inhabitants of the guest house were also converging on the church, among them Hugh Beringar; not, perhaps, a victim of fear, but drawn by the delicate bait of Aline Siward, who came hastening from her house by the mill with lowered eyes and heavy heart. Beringar had, none the less, a quick eye